leaves twenty dollars for other expenses, not countin' what I'vealready spent, which is six-fifty," said she, recovering herself-possession. "It's plenty."

"But y' ain't calc'lated on no sleepers nor hotel bills."

"I ain't goin' on no sleeper. Mis' Doudney says it's jest scandalousthe way things is managed on them cars. I'm goin' on theold-fashioned cars, where they ain't no half-dressed men runain'around."

"But you needn't be afraid of them, Mother; at your age-"

"There! you needn't throw my age an' homeliness into my face,Ethan Ripley. If I hadn't waited an' tended on you so long, I'd looka little more's I did when I married yeh."

Ripley gave it up in despair. He didn't realize fully enough how theproposed trip had unsettled his wife's nerves. She didn't realize itherself.

"As for the hotel bills, they won't be none. I a-goin' to pay thempirates as much for a day's board as we'd charge for a week's, an'have nawthin' to eat but dishes. I'm goin' to take a chicken an'some hard-boiled eggs, an' I'm goin' right through to Georgetown."

"Well, all right; but here's the ticket I got."

"I don't want yer ticket."

"But you've got to take it."

"Wall, I hain't."

"Why, yes, ye have. It's bought, an' they won't take itback."

"Won't they?" She was staggered again.

"Not much they won't. I ast 'em. A ticket sold is sold."

"Waal, if they won't-"

"You bet they won't."

"I s'pose I'll haff to use it"; and that ended iti -They were a familiarsight as they rode down the road toward town next day. As usual,Mrs. Ripley sat up straight and stiff as "a half-drove wedge in awhite-oak log." The day was cold and raw. There was some snowon the ground, but not enough to warrant the use of sleighs. It was"neither sleddin' nor wheelin'." The old people sat on a board laidacross the box, and had an old quilt or two drawn up over theirknees. Tewksbury lay in the back part of the box (which was filledwith hay), where he jounced up and down, in company with aqueer old trunk and a brand-new imitation-leather handbag, Thereis no ride quite so desolate and uncomfortable as a ride in a lumberwagon on a cold day in autumn, when the ground is frozen and thewind is strong and raw with threatening snow. The wagon wheelsgrind along in the snow, the cold gets in under the seat at thecalves of one's legs, and the ceaseless bumping of the bottom ofthe box on the feet is frightful.

There was not much talk on the way down, and what little therewas related mainly to certain domestic regulations to be strictlyfollowed regarding churning, pickles, pancakes, etc. Mrs. Ripleywore a shawl over her head and carried her queer little blackbonnet in her hand. Tewksbury was also wrapped in a shawl. Theboy's teeth were pounding together like castanets by the time theyreached Cedarville, and every muscle ached with the fatigue ofshaking. After a few purchases they drove down to the railwaystation, a frightful little den (common in the West) which wasalways too hot or too cold. It happened to be hot just now-a factwhich rejoiced little Tewksbury.

"Now git my trunk stamped 'r fixed, 'r whatever they call it," shesaid to Ripley in a commanding tone, which gave great delight tothe inevitable crowd of loafers begliming to assemble. "Nowremember, Tukey, have Granddad kill that biggest turkey nightbefore Thanksgiving, an' then you run right over to Mis'Doudney's-she's got a nawful tongue, but she can bake a turkeyfirst-rate-an' she'll fix up some squash pies for yeh. You can warmup one s' them mince pies. I wish ye could be with me, but yecan't, so do the best ye can."

Ripley returning now, she said: "Waal, now, I've fixed things upthe best I could. I've baked bread enough to last a week, an' Mis'Doudney has promised to bake for yeh."

"I don't like her bakin'."

"Waal, you'll haff to stand it till I get back, 'n' you'll find a jar o'sweet pickles an' some crabapple sauce down suller, 'n' you'd bettermelt up brown sugar for 'lasses, 'n' for goodness' sake don't eat allthem mince pies up the fust week, 'n' see that Tukey ain't frozegoin' to school. An' now you'd better get out for home. Good-bye,an' remember them pies.

One cold, windy, intensely bright day, Mrs. Stacey, who livesabout two miles from Cedarville, looking out of the window, saw aqueer little figure struggling along the road, which was blockedhere and there with drifts. It was an old woman laden with a goodhalf-dozen parcels, any one of which was a load, which the windseemed determined to wrench from her. She was dressed in black,with a full skirt, and her cloak being short, the wind had excellentopportunity. to inflate her garments ind sail her off occasionallyinto the deep snow outside the track, but she held on bravely tillshe reached the gate. As she turned in, Mrs. Stacey cried:

"Why! it's Gran'ma Ripley, just getting back from her trip. Why!how do you do? Come in. Why! you must be nearly frozen. Let metake off your hat and veil."

"No, thank ye kindly, but I can't stop. I must be glttin' back toRipley. I expec' that man has jest let ev'rything go six ways f'rSunday."

"Oh, you must sit down just a minute and warm."

"Waal, I will, but I've got to git home by sundown. Sure I don'ts'pose they's a thing in the house to eat."

"Oh dear! I wish Stacey was here, so he could take you home. An'the boys at school."

"Don't need any help, if 'twa'n't for these bundles an' things. I guessI'll jest leave some of 'em here an'- Here! take one of these apples. Ibrought 'em from Lizy Jane's suller, back to Yaark State."

"Oh! they're delicious! You must have had a lovely time."

"Pretty good. But I kep' thinkin' o' Ripley an' Tukey all the time. Is'pose they have had a gay time of it" (she meant the opposite ofgay). "Waal, as I told Lizy Jane, I've had my spree, an' now I've gotto git back to work. They ain't no rest for such as we are. As I toldLizy Jane, them folks in the big houses have Thanksgivin' dinnersevery day uv their lives, and men an' women in splendid do's towait on 'em, so't Thanksgivin' don't mean anything to 'em; but wepoor critters, we make a great to-do if we have a good dinner onceta year. I've saw a pile o' this world, Mrs. Stacey-a pile of it! I didn'tthink they was so many big houses in the world as I saw b'tweenhere an' Chicago. Waal, I can't set here gabbin'; I must get home toRipley. Jest kinder stow them bags away. I'll take two an' leavethem three others. Goodbye. I must be gittin' home to Ripley. He'llwant his supper on time." And off up the road the indomitablelittle figure trudged, head held down to the cutting blast. Littlesnow fly, a speck on a measureless expanse, crawling along withpainful breathing and slipping, sliding steps- "Gittin' home toRipley an' the boy."

Ripley was out to the barn when she entered, but Tewksbury wasbuilding a fire in the old cookstove. He sprang up with a cry of joyand ran to her. She seized him and kissed him, and it did her somuch good she hugged him close and kissed him again and again,crying hysterically.

"Oh, gran'ma, I'm so glad to see you! We've had an awful timesince you've been gone."

She released him and looked around. A lot of dirty dishes were onthe table, the tablecloth was a "sight to behold," and so was thestove-kettle marks all over the tablecloth, splotches of pancakebatter all over the stove.

When Ripley came in she had on her regimentals, the stove wasbrushed, the room swept, and she was elbow-deep in the dishpan."Hullo, Mother! Got back, hev yeh?"

"I sh'd say it was about time," she replied briefly with-out lookingup or ceasing work. "Has ol' 'Cruuipy' dried up yit?" This was hergreeting.

Her trip was a fact now; no chance could rob her of it. She hadlooked forward twenty-three years toward it, and now she couldlook back at it accomplished. She took up her burden again, nevermore thinking to lay it down.

UNCLE ETHAN RIPLEY

"Like the Main-Travelled Road of Life, it is traversed by manyclasses of people."

UNCLE ETHAN had a theory that a man's character could be toldby the way he sat in a wagon seat.

"A mean man sets right plumb in the middle o' the seat, as much asto say, 'Walk, goldarn yeh, who cares!' But a man that sets in thecorner o' the seat, much as to say, 'Jump in-cheaper t' ride 'n towalk,' you can jest tie to."

Uncle Ripley was prejudiced in favor of the stranger, therefore,before he came opposite the potato patch, where the old man was"bugging his vines." The stranger drove a jaded-looking pair ofcalico ponies, hitched to a clattering democrat wagon, and he saton the extreme end of the seat, with the lines in his right hand,while his left rested on his thigh, with his little finger gracefullycrooked and his elbows akimbo. He wore a blue shirt, withgay-colored armlets just above the elbows, and his vest hungunbuttoned down his lank ribs. It was plain he was well pleasedwith himself.

As he pulled up and threw one leg over the end of the seat, UncleEthan observed that the left spring was much more worn than theother, which proved that it was not accidental, but that it was thedriver's habit to sit on that end of the seat.

"Good afternoon," said the stranger pleasantly.

"Good afternoon, sir."

"Bugs purty plenty?"

"Plenty enough, I gol! I don't see where they all come fum."

"Early Rose?" inquired the man, as if referring to the bugs.

"No; Peachblows an' Carter Reds. My Early Rose is over near thehouse. The old woman wants 'em near. See the darned things!" hepursued, rapping savagely on the edge of the pan to rattle the bugsback.

"How do yeh kill 'em-scald 'em?"

"Mostly. Sornetimcs I

"Good piece of oats," yawned the stranger listessly.

"That's barley."

"So 'tis. Didn't notice."

Uncle Ethan was wondering who the man was. He had some potsof black paint in the wagon and two or three square boxes.

"What do yeh think o' Cleveland's chances for a second term?"continued the man, as if they had been talking politics all thewhile.

"That's so-it's a purty scaly outlook. I don't believe in second termsmyself," the man hastened to say.

"Is that your new barn acrosst there?" be asked, point-ing with hiswhip.

"Yes, sir, it is," replied the old man proudly. After years ofplanning and hard work he had managed to erect a little woodenbarn, costing possibly three hundred dollars. It was plain to be seenhe took a childish pride in the fact of its newness.

The stranger mused. "A lovely place for a sign," he said as his eyeswandered across its shining yellow broadside.

Uncle Ethan stared, unmindful of the bugs crawling over the edgeof his pan. His interest in the pots of paint deepened.

"Couldn't think o' lettin' me paint a sign on that barn?" the strangercontinued, putting his locked hands around one knee and gainingaway across the pigpen at the building.

"What kind of a sign? Goldarn your skins!" Uncle Ethan poundedthe pan with his paddle and scraped two or three crawlingabominations off his leathery wrist.

It was a beautiful day, and the man in the wagon seemed unusuallyloath to attend to business. The tired ponies slept in the shade ofthe lombardies. The plain was draped in a warm mist andshadowed by vast, vaguely defined masses of clouds-a lazy Juneday.

"Dodd's Family Bitters," said the man, waking out of hisabstraction with a start and resuming his working manner. "Thebest bitter in the market." He alluded to it in the singular. "Like tolook at it? No trouble to show goods, as the fellah says," he wenton hastily, seeing Uncle Ethan's hesitation.

He produced a large bottle of triangular shape, like a bottle forpickled onions. It had a red seal on top and a strenuous caution inred letters on the neck, "None genuine unless 'Dodd's FamilyBittem' is blown in the bottom."

"Here's what it cures," pursued the agent, pointing at the side,where; in an inverted pyramid, the names of several hundreddiseases were arranged, running from "gout" to "pulmonarycomplaints," etc.

"Wal, mother ain't to home, an' I don't know as she'd like this kind.We ain't been sick fr years. Still, they's no tellln'," he added,seeing the answer to his objection in the agent's eyes. "Times ispurty close too, with us, y' see;; we've just built that stable-"

'Say I'll tell yeh what I'll do," said the stranger, waking up andspeaking in a warnily generous tone. "I'll give you ten bottles of thebitter if you'll let me paint a sign on that barn. It won't hurt thebarn a bit, and if you want 'o you can paint it Out a year from date.Come, what d'ye say?"

"I guess I hadn't better."

The agent thought that Uncle Ethan was after more pay, but inreality he was thinking of what his little old wife would say.

"It simply puts a family bitter in your home that may save you fiftydollars this comin' fall. You can't tell."

Just what the man said after that Uncle Ethan didn't follow. Hisvoice had a confidential purring sound as he stretched across thewagon seat and talked on, eyes half shut. He straightened up at lastand concluded in the tone of one who has carried his point:

"So! If you didn't want to use the whole twenty five bottles y'rself,why! sell it to your neighbors. You can get twenty dollars out of iteasy, and still have five bottles of the best family bitter that everwent into a bottle."

It was the thought of this opportunity to get a buffalo skin coat thatconsoled Uncle Ethan as he saw the hideous black lettersappearing under the agent's lazy brush.

It was the hot side of the barn, and painting was no light work. Theagent was forced to mop his forehead with his sleeve.

"Say, hain't got a cookie or anything, and a cup o' milk, handy?" hesaid at the end of the first enormous word, which ran the wholelength of the barn.

Uncle Ethan got him the milk and oookie, which he ate with anexaggeratedly dainty action of his fingers, seated meanwhile on thestaging which Uncle Ripley had helped him to build. This lunchinfused new energy into him, and in a short time "DODD'SFAMILY BITTERS, Best in the Market," disfigured thesweet-smelling pine boards.

Ethan was eating his self-obtained supper of bread and milk whenhis wife came home.

"Who's been a-paintin' on that barn?" she demanded, her beadlikeeyes flashing, her withered little face set in an ominous frown."Ethan Ripley, what you been doin'?"

"Nawthin'," he replied feebly.

"Who painted that sign on there?"

"A man come along an' he wanted to paint that on there, and I let'im; and it's my barn anyway. I guess I can do what I'm a min' towith it," he ended defiantly; but his eyes wavered.

Mrs. Ripley ignored the defiance. "What under the sun p'sessedyou to do such a thing as that, Ethan Ripley? I declare I don't see!You git fooler an' fooler cv'ry day you live, I do believe."

Uncle Ethan attempted a defense.

"Wal, he paid me twenty-five dollars f'r it, anyway."

"Did 'e?" She was visibly affected by this news.

"Wal, anyhow, it amounts to that; he give me twenty-five bottles-"

Mrs. Ripley sank back in her chair. "Wal, I swan to Bungay! EthanRipley-wal, you beat all I ever see!" she added in despair ofexpression. "I thought you had some sense left; but you hain't, notone blessed scimpton. Where is the stuff?"

"Down cellar, an' you needn't take on no airs, ol' woman. I'veknown you to buy things you didn't need time an' time an' agin-tinsan' things, an' I guess you wish you had back that ten dollars youpaid for that illustrated Bible,"

"Go 'long an' bring that stuff up here. I never see such a man in mylife. It's a wonder he didn't do it f'r two bottles." She glared out atthe 'sign, which faced directly upon the kitchen window.

Uncle Ethan tugged the two cases up and set them down on thefloor of the kitchen. Mrs. Ripley opened a bottle and smelled of itlike a cautious cat.

"Ugh! Merciful sakes, what stuff! It ain't fit f'r a hog to take.What'd you think you was goin' to do with it?" she asked inpoignant disgust.

"I expected to take it-if I was sick. Whaddy ye s'pose?" Hedefiantly stood his ground, towering above her like a leaningtower.

"The hull cartload of it?"

"No. I'm goin' to sell part of it an' git me an overcoat-"

"Sell it!" she shouted. "Nobuddy'il buy that sick'nin' stuff but anold numskull like you. Take that slop out o' the house this 'minute!Take it right down to the sinkhole an' smash every bottle on thestones."

Uncle Ethan and the cases of medicine disappeared, and the oldwoman addressed her concluding remarks to little Tewksbury, hergrandson, who stood timidly on one leg in the doorway, like anintruding pullet.

"Everything around this place 'ud go to rack an' ruin if I didn'tkeep a watch on that soft-pated old dummy. I thought thatlightnin'-rod man had glve him a lesson he'd remember; but no, hemust go an' make a reg'lar-"

She subsided in a tumult of banging pans, which helped her out inthe matter of expression and reduced her to a grim sort of quiet.Uncle Ethan went about the house like a convict on shipboard.Once she caught him looking out of the window.

"I should think you'd feel proud o' that."

Uncle Ethan had never been sick a day in his life. He was bent andbruised with never-ending toil, but he had nothing especial thematter with him.

He did not smash the medicine, as Mrs. Ripley commanded,because he had determined to sell it. The next Sunday morning,after his chores were done, he put on his best coat of fadeddiagonal, and was brushing his hair into a ridge across the centerof his high, narrow head when Mrs. Ripley carne in from feedingthe calves.

"Where you goin' now?"

"None o' your business," he replied. "It's darn funny if I can't stirwithout you wantin' to know all about it. Where's Tukey?"

"Feedin' the chickens. You ain't goin' to take him off this mornin'now! I don't care where you go."

"Who's a-goin' to take him off? I ain't said nothin' about takin' himoff."

Ripley took a water pail, and put four bottles of "the bitter mto it,and trudged away up the road with it in a pleasant glow of hope.All nature seemed to declare the day a time of rest and invited mento disassoeiate ideas of toil from the rustling green wheat, shininggrass, and tossing blooms. Something of the sweetness andbuoyancy of all nature permeated the old man's work-callousedbody, and he whistled little snatches of the dance tunes heplayed on his fiddle.

But he found neighbor Johnson to be supplied with another varietyof bitter, which was all he needed for the present. He qualified hisrefusal to buy with a cordial invitation to go out and see his shoats,in which he took infinite pride. But Uncle Ripley said: "I guess I'llhaf t' be gom'; I want 'o git up to Jennings' before dimier."

He couldn't help feeling a little depressed when he found Jenningsaway. The next house along the pleasant lane was inhabited by a"newcomer." He was sitting on the horse trough, holding a horse'shalter, while his hired man dashed cold water upon the galled spoton the animal's shoulder.

After some preliminary talk Ripley presented his medicine.

"Hell, no! What do I want of such stuff? When they's anything thematter with me, I take a lunkin' ol' swig of popple bark andbourbon! That fixes me."

Uncle Ethan moved off up the lane. He hardly felt like whistlingnow. At the next house he set his pail down in the weeds besidethe fence and went in without it. Doudney came to the door in hisbare feet, buttoning his suspenders over a clean boiled shirt. Hewas dressing to go out.

"Hello, Ripley. I was just goin' down your way. Jest wait a minute,an' I'll be out."

When he came out, fully dressed, Uncle Ethan grappled him.

"Say, what d' you think o' paytent med-"

"Some of 'em are boss. But y' want 'o know what y're gittin'."

"What d' ye think o, Dodd's-"

"Best in the market."

Uncle Ethan straightened up and his face lighted. Doudney wenton:

"Yes, sir; best bitter that ever went into a bottle. I know, I've triedit. I don't go much on patent medicines, but when I get a good-"

"Don't want 'o buy a bottle?"

Doudney turned and faced him.

"Buy! No. I've got nineteen bottles I want 'o sell" Ripley glancedup at Doudney's new granary and there read "Dodd's FamilyBitters." He was stricken dumb. Doudney saw it all and roared.

"Wal, that's a good one! We two tryin' to sell each other bitters.Ho-ho-ho-har, whoop! wal, this is rich! How many bottles did yougit?"

"None o' your business," said Uncle Ethan as he turned and madeoff, while Doudney screamed with merriment.

On his way home Uncle Ethan grew ashamed of his burden.Doudney had canvassed the whole neighborhood, and hepractically gave up the struggle. Everybody he met seemeddetermined to find out what he had been doing, and at last hebegan lying about it.

"Hello, Uncle Ripley, what y' got there in that pail?"

"Goose eggs fr settin'."

He disposed of one bottle to old Gus Peterson. Gus never paid hisdebts, and he would oniy promise fifty cents "on tick" for thebottle, and yet so desperate was Ripley that this questionable salecheered him up not a little.

As he came down the road, tired, dusty, and hungry, he climbedover the fence in order to avoid seeing that sign on the barn andslunk into the house without looking back.

He couldn't have felt meaner about it if he had allowed aDemocratic poster to be pasted there.

The evening passed in grim silence, and in sleep he saw that signwriggling across the side of the barn like boa constrictors hung onrails. He tried to paint them out, but every time he tried it the manseemed to come back with a sheriff and savagely warned him to letit stay till the year was up. In some mysterious way the agentseemed to know every time he brought out the paint pot, and hewas no longer the pleasant-voiced individual who drove the calicoponies.

As he stepped out into the yard next morning that abominable,sickening, scrawling advertisement was the first thing that claimedhis glance-it blotted out the beauty of the morning.

Mrs. Ripley came to the window, buttoning her dress at the throat,a wisp of her hair sticking assertively from the little knob at theback of her head.

"Lovely, ain't it! An' J've got to see it all day long. I can't look outthe winder, but that thing's right in my face." It seemed to makeher savage. She hadn't been in such a temper since her visit to NewYork. "I hope you feel satisfied with it."

Ripley walked off to the barn. His pride in its clean sweet newnesswas gone. He slyly tried the paint to see if it couldn't be scrapedoff, but it was dried in thoroughly. Whereas before he had takendelight in having his neighbors turn and look at the building, nowhe kept out of sight whenever he saw a team coming. He hoed cornaway in the back of the field, when he should have been buggingpotatoes by the roadside.

Mrs. Ripley was in a frightful mood about it, but she held herselfin check for several days. At last she burst forth:

"Ethan Ripley, I can't stand that thing any longer, and I ain't goin'to, that's all! You've got to go and paint that thing out, or I will. I'mjust about crazy with it."

"But, Mother, I promised-"

"I don't care what you promised, it's got to be painted out. I've gotthe nightmare now, seein' it. I'm goin' to send for a pail o' red paint,and I'm goin' to paint that out if it takes the last breath I've got todo it."

"I'll tend to it, Mother, if you won't hurry me-"

"I can't stand it another day. It makes me boil every time I look outthe winder."

Uncle Ethan hitched up his team and drove gloomily off to town,where he tried to find the agent. He lived in some other part of thecounty, however, and so the old man gave up and bought a pot ofred paint, not daring to go back to his desperate wife without it.

"Goin' to paint y'r new barn?" inquired the merchant with friendlyinterest.

Uncle Ethan turned with guilty sharpness; but the merchant's facewas grave and kindly.

"Wal! I'll be glad when it's covered up." When she got ready forbed, he was still seated in his chair, and after she had dozed offtwo or three times she began to wonder why he didn't come Whenthe clock struck ten, and she realized that he had not stirred, shebegan to get impatient. "Come, are y' goin' to sit there all night?"There was no reply. She rose up in bed and looked about theroom. The broad moon flooded it with light, so that she could seehe was not asleep in his chair, as she had supposed. There wassomething ominous in his disappearance.

"Ethan! Ethan Ripley, where are yeh?" There was no reply to hersharp call. She rose and distractedly looked about among thefurniture, as if he inight somehow be a cat and be hiding in acorner somewhere. Then she went upstairs where the boy slept, herhard little heels making a curious tunking noise on the bare boards.The moon fell across the sleeping hoy like a robe of silver. He wasalone.

She began to be alarmed. Her eyes widened in fear. An sorts ofvague horrors sprang unbidden into her brain. She still had themist of sleep in her brain.

She hurried down the stairs and out into the fragrant night. Thekatydids were singing in infinite peace under the solemn splendorof the moon. The cattle sniffed and sighed, jangling their bells nowand then, and the chickens in the coop stirred uneasily as ifoverheated. The old woman stood there in her bare feet and longnightgown, horror-stricken. The ghastly story of a man who hadhung himseif in his barn because his wife deserted him came intoher mind and stayed there with frightful persistency. Her throatfilled chokingly.

She felt a wild rush of loneliness. She had a sudden realization ofhow dear that gaunt old figure was, with its grizzled face and readysmile. Her breath came quick and quicker, and she was at the pointof bursting into a wild cry to Tewksbury when she heard a strangenoise. It came from the barn, a creaking noise. She looked that wayand saw in the shadowed side a deeper shadow moving to and fro.A revulsion to astonishment and anger took place in her.

"Land o' Bungay! If he ain't paintin' that barn, like a perfect oldidiot, in the night."

Uncle Ethan, working desperately, did not hear her feet patteringdown the path, and was startled by her shrill voice.

"Well, Ethan Ripley, whaddy y' think you're doin' now?"

He made two or three slapping passes with the brush and thensnapped out, "I'm a-paintin' this barn-whaddy ye s'pose? II ye hadeyes y' wouldn't ask."

"Well, you come right straight to bed. What d'you mean by actin'so?"

"You go back into the house an' let me be. I know what I'm a-doin'.You've pestered me about this sign jest about enough." He dabbedhis brush to and fro as he spoke. His gaunt figure towered aboveher in shadow. His slapping brush had a vicious sound.

Neither spoke for some time. At length she said more gently, "Ain'tyou comin' in?"

"No-not till I get a-ready. You go 'long an' tend to y'r own business.Don't stan' there an' ketch cold."

She moved off slowly toward the house. His shout subdued her.Working alone out there had rendered him savage; he was not tobe pushed any further. She knew by the tone of his voice that hemust now be respected.

She slipped on her shoes and a shawl, and came back where hewas working, and took a seat on a sawhorse.

"I'm goin' to set right here till you come in, Ethan Ripley," she saidin a firm voice, but gentler than usual.

"Wal, you'll set a good while," was his ungracious reply, but eachfelt a furtive tenderness for the other. He worked on in silence. Theboards creaked heavily as he walked to and fro, and the slappingsound of the paint brush sounded loud in the sweet harmony ofthe night. The majestic moon swung slowly round the corner of thebarn and fell upon the old man's grizzled head and bent shoulders.The horses inside could be heard stamping the mosquitoes awayand chewing their hay in pleasant chorus.

The little figure seated on the sawhorse drew the shawl closerahout her thin shoulders. Her eyes were in shadow, and her handswere wrapped in her shawl. At last she spoke in a curious tone.

"Wal, I don't know as you was so very much to blame. I didn't wantthat Bible myself-I hold out I did, but I didn't."

Ethan worked on until the full meaning of this unprecedentedsurrender penetrated his head, and then he threw down his brush.

"Wal, I guess I'll let 'er go at that. I'ye covered up the most of it,anyhow. Guess we better go in."

GOD'S RAVENS

I

CHICAGO has three winds that blow upon it. One comes from theEast, and the mind goes out to the cold gray-blue lake. One fromthe North, and men think of illimitable spaces of pinelands andmaple-clad ridges which lead to the unknown deeps of the arcticwoods.

But the third is the West of Southwest wind, dry, magnetic, full ofsmell of unmeasured miles of growing grain in summer, orripening corn and wheat in autumn. When it comes in winter theair glitters with incredible brilliancy. The snow of the countrydazzles and flames in the eyes; deep blue shadows everywherestream like stains of ink. Sleigh bells wrangle from early morningtill late at night, and every step is quick and alert. In the city,smoke dims its clarity, but it is welcome.

But its greatest moment of domination is spring. The bitter graywind of the East has held unchecked rule for days, giving place toits brother the North wind only at intervals, till some day in Marchthe wind of the southwest begins to blow. Then the eaves begin todrip. Here and there a fowl (in a house that is really a prison)begins to sang the song it sang on the farm, and toward noon itssong becomes a chant of articulate joy.

Then the poor crawl out of their reeking hovels on the South andWest sides to stand in the sun-the blessed sun-and felicitatethemselves on being alive. Windows of sickrooms are opened, themerry small boy goes to school without his tippet, and men lay offtheir long ulsters for their beaver coats. Caps give place to hats,and men women pause to chat when they meet each other thestreet. The open door is the sign of the great change of wind.

There are imaginative souls who are stirred yet deeper by thiswind-men like Robert Bloom, to whom come vague and verysweet reminiscences of farm life when the snow is melting and thedry ground begins to appear. To these people the wind comes fromthe wide unending spaces of the prairie West. They can smell thestrange thrilling odor of newly uncovered sod and moist brownplowed lands. To them it is like the opening door of a prison.

Robert had crawled downtown and up to his office high in the Starblock after a month's sickness. He had resolutely pulled a pad ofpaper under his hand to write, but the window was open and thatwind coming in, and he could not write-he could only dream.

His brown hair fell over the thin white hand which propped hishead. His face was like ivory with dull yellowish stains in it. Hiseyes did not see the mountainous roofs humped and piled into vastmasses of brick and stone, crossed and riven by streets, and sweptby masses of gray-white vapor; they saw a little valley circled bylow-wooded bluffs-his native town in Wisconsin.

As his weakness grew his ambition fell away, and his heart turnedback to nature and to the things he had known in his youth, to thekindly people of the olden time. It did not occur to him that thespirit of the country might have changed.

Sitting thus, he had a mighty longing come upon him to give upthe struggle, to go back to the simplest life with his wife and twoboys. Why should he tread in the mill, when every day was takingthe lifeblood out of his heart?

Slowly his longing took resolution. At last he drew his desk down,and as the lock clicked it seemed like the shutting of a prison gatebehind him.

At the elevator door he met a fellow editor. "Hello, Bloom! Didn'tknow you were down today."

"I'm only trying it. I'm going to take a vacation for a while."

"That's right, man. You look like a ghost."

"He hadn't the courage to tell him he never expected to work thereagain. His step on the way home was firmer than it had been forweeks. In his white face his wife saw some subtle change.

"What is it, Robert?"

"Mate, let's give it up."

"What do you mean?"

"The struggle is too hard. I can't stand it. I'm hungry for the countryagain. Let's get out of this."

"Where'll we go?"

"Back to my native town-up among the Wisconsin hills andcoulees. Go anywhere, so that we escape this pressure-it's killingme. Let's go to Bluff Siding for a year. It will do me good-maybring me back to life. I can do enough special work to pay ourgrocery bill; and the Merrill place-so Jack tells me-is empty. Wecan get it for seventy-five dollars for a year. We can pull throughsome way."

"Very well, Robert."

"I must have rest. All the bounce has gone out of me, Mate," hesaid with sad lines in his face. "Any extra work here is out of thequestion. I can only shamble around-an excuse for a man."

The wife had ceased to smile. Her strenuous cheerfulness couldnot hold before his tragically drawn and bloodless face.

"I'll go wherever you think best, Robert It will be just as well forthe boys. I suppose there is a school there?"

"Oh, yes. At any rate, they can get a year's schooling in nature."

"Well-no matter, Robert; you are the one to be considered." Shehad the self-sacrfficing devotion of the average woman. Shefancied herself hopelessly his inferior.

They had dwelt so long on the crumbling edge of poverty that theywere hardened to its threat, and yet the failure of Robert's healthhad been of the sort which terrifies. It was a slow but steadysinking of vital force. It had its ups and downs, but it was adownward trail, always downward. The time for sell-deception hadpassed.

His paper paid him a meager salary, for his work was prized onlyby the more thoughtful readers of the Star.

In addition to his' regular work he occasionally hazarded a storyfor the juvenile magazines of the East. In this way he turned theantics of his growing boys to account, as he often said to his wife.

He had also passed the preliminary stages of literary success bygetting a couple of stories accepted by an Eastern magazine, andhe still confidently looked forward to seeing them printed.

His wife, a sturdy, practical little body, did her part in the bitterstruggle by keeping their little home one of the most attractive onthe West Side, the North Side being altogether too high for them.

In addition, her sorely pressed brain sought out other ways ofhelping. She wrote out all her husband's stories on the typewriter,and secretly she had tried composing others herself, the resultsbeing queer dry little chronicles of the doings of men and women,strung together without a touch of literary grace.

She proposed taking a large house and rerenting rooms, but Robertwould not hear to it. "As long as I can crawl about we'll leave thatto others."

In the month of preparation which followed he talked a great dealabout their venture.

"I want to get there," he said, "just when the leaves are coming outon the trees. I want to see the cherry trees blossom on the hillside.The popple trees always get green first."

At other times he talked about the people. "It will be a rest just toget back among people who aren't ready to tread on your head inorder to lift themselves up. I believe a year among those kind,unhurried people will glve me all the material I'll need for years.I'll write a series of studies somewhat like Jefferies'-or Barrie's-only, of course, I'll be original. I'll just take his plan Of tellingabout the people I meet and their queer ways, so quaint and good."

"I'm tired of the scramble," he kept breaking out Of silence to say."I don't blame the boys, but it's plain to me they see that my goingwill let them move up one. Mason cynically voiced the wholething today: 'I can say, "Sorry to see you go, Bloom," because yourgoing doesn't concern me. I'm not in line of succession, but someof the other boys don't feel so. There's no divinity doth hedge aneditor; nothing but law prevents the murder of those above bythose below.'"

"I don't like Mr. Mason when he talks like that," said the wife.

"Well-I don't." He didn't tell her what Mason said when Roberttalked about the good simple life of the people in Bluff Siding:

"Oh, bosh, Bloom! You'll find the struggle of the outside worldreflected in your little town. You'll find men and women just ashard and selfish in their small way. It'll be harder to bear, becauseit will all be so petty and pusillailmous."

It was a lovely day in late April when they took the train out of thegreat grimy terrible city. It was eight o'clock, but the streets weremuddy and wet, a cold East wind blowing off the lake.

With clanging bell the train moved away, piercing the ragged grayformless mob of houses and streets (through which railwaysalways run in a city). Men were hurrying to work, and Robertpitied them, poor fellows, condemned to do that thing forever.

In an hour they reached the prairies, already clothed upon faintlywith green grass and tender springing wheat. The purple-brownsquares reserved for the corn looked deliciously soft and warm tothe sick man, and he longed to set his bare feet into it.

His boys were wild with delight. They had the natural love of theearth still in them, and correspondingly cared little for the city.They raced through the cars like colts. They saw everything. Everyblossoming plant, every budding tree, was precious to them all.

All day they rode. Toward noon they left the sunny prairie land ofnorthern Illinois and southern Wisconsin, and entered upon the hillland of Madison and beyond. As they went North, the season wasless advanced, but spring was in the fresh wind and the warmsunshine.

As evening drew on, the hylas began to peep from the pools, andtheir chorus deepened as they came on toward Bluff Siding, whichseemed very small, very squalid, and uninteresting, but Robertpointed at the circling wine-colored wall of hills and the warmsunset sky.

"We're in luck to find a hotel," said Robert. "They burn down everythree months."

They were met by a middle-aged man and conducted across theroad to a hotel, which had been a roller-skating rink in other days,and was not prepossessing. However, they were ushered into theparlor, which resembled the sitting room of a rather ambitiousvillage home, and there they took seats, while the landlordconsulted about rooms.

The wife's heart sank. From the window she could see several ofthe low houses, and far off just the hills which seemed to make thetown so very small, very lonely. She was not given time to shedtears. The children clamored for food, tired and cross.

Robert went out into the office, where he sigued his name underthe close and silent scrutiny of a half dozen roughly clad men, whosat leaning against the wall. They were merely workingmen tohim, but in Mrs. Bloom's eyes they were dangerous people.

The landlord looked at the name as Robert wrote. "Your boxes areall here," he said.

Robert looked up at him in surprise. "What boxes?"

"Your household goods. They came in on No.9."

Robert recovered himself. He remembered this was a villagewhere everything that goes on-everything-is known.

The stairway rose picturesquely out of the office to the lowsecond story, and wp these stairs they tramped to' their tiny rooms,which were like cells.

"Oh, Mamma, ain't it queer?" cried the boys.

"Supper is all ready," the landlord's soft, deep voice aunounced afew moments later, and the boys responded with whoops ofhunger.

They were met by the close scrutiny of every boarder as theyentered, and they heard also the muttered cornments andexplanations.

"Family to take the Merrill house."

"He looks purty well fiaxed out, don't he?"

They were agreeably surprised to find everything neat and cleanand wholesome. The bread was good and the butter delicious.Their spirits revived.

They made a hearty meal, and the boys, being filled up, grewsleepy. After they were put to bed Robert said, "Now, Mate, let'sgo see the house."

They walked out arm in arm like lovers. Her sturdy form steadiedhim, though he would not have acknowledged it. The red flush wasnot yet gone from the west, and the hills still kept a splendid toneof purple-black. It was very clear, the stars were out, the winddeliciously soft. "Isn't it still?" Robert aimost whispered.

They walked on under the budding trees up the hill, till they cameat last to the small frame house set under tall maples and locusttrees, just showing a feathery fringe of foliage.

"This is our home," said Robert.

Mate leaned on the gate in silence. Frogs were peeping. The smellof spring was in the air. There was a magnificent repose in thehour, restful, recreating, impressive.

"Oh, it's beautiful, Robert! I know we shall like it."

"We must like it," he said.

II

First contact with the people disappointed Robert. In the work ofmoving in he had to do with people who work at day's work, andthe fault was his more than theirs. He forgot that they did notconsider their work degrading. They resented his bossing. Thedrayman grew rebellious.

"Look a-here, my Christian friend, if you'll go 'long in the houseand let us alone it'll be a good job. We know what we're about."

This was not pleasant, and he did not perceive the trouble. In thesame way he got foul of the carpenter and the man who plowed hisgarden. Some way his tone was not right. His voice was cold anddistant. He generally found that the men knew better than hewhat was to be done and how to do it; and sometimes he felt likeapologizing, but their attitude had changed till apology wasimpossible.

He had repelled their friendly advances because he consideredthem (without meaning to do so) as workmen, and not asneighbors. They reported, therefore, that he was cranky and rode ahigh horse.

"He thinks he's a little tin god on wheels," the drayman said.

"Oh, he'll get over that," said McLane. "I knew the boy's folksyears ago-tip-top folks, too. He ain't well, and that makes him alittle crusty."

At the end of ten days they were settled, and nothing remained todo but plan a little garden and-get well. The boys, with theirunspoiled natures, were able to melt into the ranks of thevillage-boy life at once, with no more friction than was indicatedby a couple of rough-and-tumble fights. They were sturdy fellows,like their mother, and these fights gave them high rank.

Robert got along in a dull, smooth way with his neighbors. He wastoo formal with them. He met them only at the meat shop and thepost office. They nodded genially and said, "Got settled yet?" Andhe replied, "Quite comfortable, thank you." They felt his coldness.Conversation halted when he came near and made him feel that hewas the subject of their talk. As a matter of fact, he generally was.He was a source of great speculation with them. Some of them hadgone so far as to bet he wouldn't live a year. They all seemedgrotesque to him, so work-scarred and bent and hairy. Even themen whose names he had known from childhood were queer tohim. They seemed shy and distant, too, not like his ideas of them.

To Mate they were almost caricatures. "What makes them lookso-so 'way behind the times, Robert?"

"Well, I suppose they are," said Robert. "Life in these coulees goeson rather slower than in Chicago. Then there are a great manyWelsh and Germans and Norwegians living way up the coulees,and they're the ones you notice. They're not all so." He could begenerous toward them in general; it was in special cases where hefailed to know them.

They had been there nearly two weeks without meeting any ofthem socially, and Robert was beginning to change his opinionabout them. "They let us severely alone," he was saying one nightto his wife.

"It's very odd. I wonder what I'd better do, Robert. I don't know theetiquette of these small towns. I never lived in one before, youknow. Whether I ought to call first-and, good gracious, who'll I callon? I'm in the dark."

"So am I, to tell the truth. I haven't lived in one of these smalltowns since I was a lad. I have a faint recollection thatintroductions were absolutely necessary. They have an etiquettewhich is as binding as that of McAilister's Four Hundred, but whatit is I don't know."

"Well, we'll wait."

"The boys are perfectly at home," said Robert with a littleemphasis on boys, which was the first indication of hisdisappointment. The people he had failed to reach.

There came a knock on the door that startled them both. "Comein," said Robert in a nervous shout.

"Land sakes! did I scare ye? Seem so, way ye yelled," said ahigh-keyed nasal voice, and a tall woman came in, followed by anequally stalwart man.

"How d'e do, Mrs. Folsom? My wife, Mr. Folsom."

Folsom's voice was lost in the bustle of getting settled, but Mrs.Folsom's voice rose above the clamor. "I was tellin' him it wasabout time we got neighborly. I never let anybody come to town aweek without callin' on 'em. It does a body a heap o' good to see aface outside the family once in a while, specially in a new place.How do you like up here on the hill?"

"Very much. The view is so fine."

"Yes, I s'pose it is. Still, it ain't my notion. I don't like to climbhills well enough. Still, I've heard of people buildin' just for theview. It's all in taste, as the old woman said that kissed the cow."

There was an element of shrewdness and sell-analysis in Mrs.Folsom which saved her from being grotesque. She knew she wasqueer to Mrs. Bloom, but she did not resent it. She was still youngin form and face, but her teeth were gone, and, like so many of herneighbors, she was too poor to replace them from the dentist's. Shewore a decent calico dress and a shawl and hat.

As she talked her eyes took in every article of furniture in theroom, and every little piece of fancywork and bric-a-brac. In fact,she reproduced the pattern of one of the tidies within two days.

Folsom sat dumbly in his chair. Robert, who met him now as aneighbor for the first time, tried to talk with him, but failed, andturned himself gladly to Mrs. Folsom, who delighted him with hervigorous phrases.

"Oh, we're a-movin', though you wouldn't think it. This town isfilled with a lot of old skinflints. Close ain't no name for 'em. Jestask Folsom thar about 'em. He's been buildin' their houses for 'em.Still, I suppose they say the same thing o' me," she added with atouch of humor which always saved her. She used a man's phrases."We're always ready to tax some other feller, but we kick likemules when the tax falls on us," she went on. "My land! the fightwe've had to git sidewalks in this town!"

"You should be mayor."

"That's what I tell Folsom. Takes a woman to clean things up.Well, I must run along. Thought I'd jest call in and see how you allwas. Come down when ye kin."

"Thank you, I will."

After they had gone Robert turned with a smile: "Our first formalcall."

"Oh, dear, Robert, what can I do with such people?"

"Go see 'em. I like her. She's shrewd. You'll like her, too."

"But what can I say to such people? Did you hear her say 'wefellers' to me?"

Robert laughed. "That's nothing. She feels as much of a man, or'feller,' as anyone. Why shouldn't she?"

"But she's so vulgar."

"I admit she isn't elegant, but I think she's a good wife andmother."

"I wonder if they're all like that?"

"Now, Mate, we must try not to offend them. We must try to beone of them."

But this was easier said than done. As he went down to the postoffice and stood waiting for his mail like the rest, he tried to enterinto conversation witb them, but mainly they moved away fromhim. William McTurg nodded at him and said, "How de do?" andMcLane asked how he liked his new place, and that was about all.

He couldn't reach them. They suspected him. They had only theestimate of the men who had worked for him; and, while they werecivil, they plainly didn't need him in the slightest degree, except asa topic of conversation.

He did not improve as he had hoped to do. The spring was wet andcold, the most rainy and depressing the valley had seen in manyyears. Day after day the rain clouds sailed in over the northern hillsand deluged the flat little town with water, till the frogs sang inevery street, till the main street mired down every team that droveinto it.

The corn rotted in the earth, but the grass grew tall andyellow-green, the trees glistened through the gray air, and the hillswere like green jewels of incalculable worth, when the sun shone,at sweet infrequent intervals.

The cold and damp struck through into the alien's heart. It seemedto prophesy his dark future. He sat at his desk and looked out intothe gray rain with gloomy eyes-a prisoner when he had expected tobe free.

He had failed in his last venture. He had not gained any power-hewas reaily weaker than ever. The rain had kept him confined to thehouse. The joy he had anticipated of tracing out all his boyishpleasure haunts was cut off. He had relied, too, upon that as asource of literary power.

He could not do much more than walk down to the post office andback on the pleasantest days. A few people called, but he couldnot talk to them, and they did not call again.

In the meanwhile his little bank account was vanishing. The boyswere strong and happy; that was his only comfort. And his wifeseemed strong, too. She had little time to get lonesome.

He grew morbid. His weakness and insecurity made him jealous ofthe security and health of others.

He grew almost to hate the people as he saw them coming andgoing in the mud, or heard their loud hearty voices sounding fromthe street. He hated their gossip, their dull jokes. The flat littletown grew vulgar and low and desolate to him.

Every little thing which had amused him now annoyed him. Thecut of their beards worried him. Their voices jarred upon him.Every day or two he broke forth to his wife in long tirades ofabuse.

"Oh, I can't stand these people! They don't know any-thing. Theytalk every rag of gossip into shreds. Taters, fish, hops; hops, fish,and taters. They've saved and pinched and toiled till their souls arepinched and ground away. You're right. They are caricatures. Theydon't read or think about anything in which I'm interested. This lifeis nerve-destroying. Talk about the health of the village life! itdestroys body and soul. It debilitates me. It will warp us both downto the level of these people."

She tried to stop him, but he went on, a flush of fever on his cheek:

"They degrade the nature they have touched. Their squat littletown is a caricature like themselves. Everything they touch theybelittle. Here they sit while side-walks rot and teams mire in thestreets."

He raged on like one demented-bitter, accusing, rebellious. In sucha mood he could not write. In place of inspiring him, the littletown and its people seemed to undermine his power and turn hissweetness of spirit into gall and acid. He only bowed to them nowas he walked feebly among them, and they excused it by referringto his sickness. They eyed him each time with pitying eyes; "He'sfailin' fast," they said among themselves.

One day, as he was returning from the post office, he felt blind fora moment and put his hand to his head. The wold of vivid greengrew gray, and life rceded from him into illimitable distance. Hehad one dim fading glimpse of a shaggy-bearded face lookingdown at him, and felt the clutch of an iron-hard strong arm underhim, and then he lost hold even on so much consciousness.

He came back slowly, rising out of immeasurable deeps toward adistant light which was like the mouth of a well filled with cloudsof misty vapor. Occasionally he saw a brown big hairy facefloating in over this lighted horizon, to smile kindly and go awayagain. Others came with shaggy beards. He heard a cheery tenorvoice which he recognized, and then another face, a big brownsmiling face; very lovely it looked now to him-almost as lovely ashis wife's, which floated in from the other side.

"He's all right now," said the cheery tenor voice from the bigbearded face.

"Oh, Mr. McTurg; do you think so?"

"Ye-e-s, sir. He's all right. The fever's left him. Brace up, old man.We need ye yit awhile." Then all was silent agam.

The well mouth cleared away its mist again, and he saw moreclearly. Part of the time he knew he was in bed staring at theceiling. Part of the time the well mouth remained closed in withclouds.

Then the light came again, and he heard a robin singing, and acatbird squalled softly, pitifully. He could see the ceiling again. Helay on his back, with his hands on his breast. He felt as if he hadbeen dead. He seemed to feel his body as if it were an alien thing.

He tried to turn his head, but it wouldn't move. He tried to speak,but his dry throat made no noise.

The big man bent over him. "Want 'o change place a little?"

He closed his eyes in answer.

A giant arm ran deftly under his shoulders and turned him as if hewere an infant, and a new part of the good old world burst on hissight. The sunshine streamed in the windows through a wavingscreen of lilac leaves and fell upon the carpet in a priceless floodof radiance.

There sat William McTurg smiling at him. He had no coat on andno hat, and his bushy thick hair rose up from his forehead likethick marsh grass. He looked to be the embodiment of sunshineand health. Sun and air were in his brown face, and the perfecthealth of a fine animal was in his huge limbs. He looked at Robertwith a smile that brought a strange feeling into his throat. It madehim try to speak; at last he whispered.

The great figure bent closer: "What is it?"

"Thank-you."

William laughed a low chuckle. "Don't bother about thanks. Wouldyou like some water?"

Thereafter he lay hearing the robins laugh and the orioles whistle,and then the frogs and katydids at night. These men with greasyvests and unkempt beards came in every day. They bathed him,and helped him to and from the bed. They helped to dress him andmove him to the window, where he could look out on the blessedgreen of the grass.

O God, it was so beautiful! It was a lover's joy only to live, to lookinto these radiant vistas again. A catbird was singing in the curranthedge. A robin was hopping across the lawn. The voices of thechildren sounded soft and jocund across the road. And thesurshine-"Beloved Christ, Thy sunshine falling upon my feet!" Hissoul ached with the joy of it, and when his wife came in she foundhim sobbing like a child.

They seemed never to weary in his service. They lifted him aboutand talked to him in loud and hearty voices which roused him likefresh winds from free spaces.

He heard the women busy with things in the kitchen. He often sawthem loaded with things to eat passing his window, and often hiswife came in and knelt down at his bed.

"Oh, Robert, they're so good! They feed us like Gods ravens."

One day, as he sat at the window fully dressed for the fourth offifth time, William McTurg came up the walk.

"Well, Robert, how are ye today?"

"First-rate, William," he smiled. "I believe I can walk out a little ifyou'll help me."

"All right, sir."

And he went forth leaning on William's arm, a piteous wraith of aman.

On every side the golden June sunshine fell, filling the valley frompurple brim to purple brim. Down over the hill to the west the lightpoured, tangled and glowing in the plum and cherry trees, leavingthe glistening grass spraying through the elms and flingingstreamers of pink across the shaven green slopes where the cattlefed.

On every side he saw kindly faces and heard hearty voices: "Goodday, Robert. Glad to see you out again." It thrilled him to hearthem call him by his first name.

His heart swelled till he could hardly breathe. The passion ofliving came back upon him, shaking, uplifting him. His pallid lipsmoved. His face was turned to the sky.

"O God, let me live! It is so beautiful! O God, give me strengthagain! Keep me in the light of the sun! Let me see the green grasscome and go!"

He turned to William with trembling lips, trying to speak:

"Oh, I understand you now. I know you all now."

But William did not understand him.

"There! there!" he said soothingly. "I guess you're gettin' tired." Heled Robert back and put him to bed.

"I'd know but we was a little brash about goin' out," William saidto him as Robert lay there smiling up at him.

"Oh, I'm all right now," the sick man said.

"Matie," the alien cried, when William had gone, "we knew ourneighbors now, don't we? We never can hate or ridicule themagain."

"Yes, Robert. They never will be caricatures again-to me."

A"GOOD FELLOW'S" WIFE

I

LIFE in the small towns of the older West moves slowly-almost asslowly as in the seaport villages or little towns of the East. Townslike Tyre and Bluff Siding have grown during the last twenty years,but very slowly, by almost imperceptible degrees. Lying too faraway from the Mississippi to be affected by the lumber interest,they are merely trading points for the farmers, with no perceivablegerms of boom in their quiet life.

A stranger coming into Belfast, Minnesota, excites much the samelanquid but persistent inquiry as in Belfast, New Hampshire. Juriesof men, seated on salt barrels and nall kegs, discuss the stranger'sappearance and his probable action, just as in Kittery, Maine, butwith a lazier speech tune and with a shade less of apparent interest.

On such a rainy day as comes in May after the corn is planted-acold, wet rainy day-the usual crowd was gathered in Wilson'sgrocery store at Bluff Siding, a small town in the "coulee country."They were farmers, for the most part, retired from active service.Their coats were of cheap diagonal or cassimere, much faded andburned by the sun; their hats, flapped about by winds and soakedwith countless rains, were also of the same yellow-brown tints.One or two wore paper collars on their hickory shirts.

Mcllvaine, farmer and wheat buyer, wore a paper collar and abutterfly necktie, as befitted a man of his station in life. He was ashort, squarely made Scotchman, with sandy whiskers muchgrayed and with a keen, in-tensely blue eye.

"Say," called McPhail, ex-sheriff of the county, in the silence thatfollowed some remark about the rain, "any o' you fellers had anytalk with this feller Sanford?"

"He's too slick to have much business in him. That waxedmustache gives 'im away."

The discussion having reached that point where his word wouldhave most effect, Steve Gilbert said, while opening the hearth torap out the ashes of his pipe, "Sam's wife heerd that he was kind o'thinkin' some of goin' into business here, if things suited 'imfirst-rate."

They all knew the old man was aching to tell something, but theydidn't purpose to gratify him by any questions. The rain drippedfrom the awning in front and fell upon the roof of the storeroom atthe back with a soft and steady roar.

"Good f'r the corn," MePhail said after a long pause.

"Purty cold, though."

Gilbert was tranquil-he had a shot in reserve. "Sam's wife said hiswife said he was thinkin' some of goin' into a bank here-"

"A bank!"

"What in thunder-"

Vance turned, with a comical look on his long, placid face, onehand stroking his beard.

"Well, now, gents, I'll tell you what's the matter with this town. Itneeds a bank. Yes, sir! I need a bank."

"You?"

"Yes, me. I didn't know just what did ail me, but I do how. It's theneed of a bank that keeps me down."

"Well, you fellers can talk an' laugh, but I tell yeb they's a boomgoin' to strike this town. It's got to come.. W'y, just look atLumberville!"

"Their boom is our bust," was McPhail's comment.

"I don't think so," said Sanford, who had entered in time to hearthese last two speeches. They all looked at him with deep interest.He was a smallish man. He wore a derby hat and a neat suit. "I'velooked things over pretty close-a man don't like to invest hiscapital" (here the rest looked at one another) "till he does; and Ibelieve there's an opening for a bank."

As he dwelt upon the scheme from day to day, the citizens,warmed to him, and he became "Jim" Sanford. He hired a littlecottage and went to housekeeping at once; but the entire summerwent by before he made his decision to settle. In fact, it was in thelast week of August that the little paper announced it in the usualstyle:

Mr. James G. Sanford, popularly known as "Jim," has decided toopen an' exchange bank for the convenienee of our citizens, whohave hitherto been forced to transact business in Lumberville. Thethanks of the town are due Mr. Sanford, who comes wellrecommended from Massachusetts and from Milwaukee, and,better still, with a bag of ducats. Mr. S. will be well patronized.Success, Jim!

The bank was open by the time the corn crop and the hogs werebeing marketed, and money was received on deposit while thecarpenters were still at work on the building. Everybody knew nowthat he was as solid as oak.

He had taken into the bank, as bookkeeper, Lincoln Bingham, oneof McPhail's multitudinous nephews; and this was a capital move.Everybody knew Link, and knew he was a McPhail, which meantthat he "could be tied to in all kinds o' weather." Of course theMcPhails, McIlvaines, and the rest of the Scotch contingency"banked on Link." As old Andrew McPhail put it:

"Link's there, an' he knows the bank an' books, an' just how thingsstand"; and so when he sold his hogs he put the whole sum-over-fifteen hundred dollars-into the bank. The McIlvaines and theBinghams did the same, and the bank was at once firmlyestablished among the farmers.

Only two people held out against Sanford, old Freeme Cole andMrs. Bingham, Lincoln's mother; but they didn't count, for Freemehadn't a cent, and Mrs. Bingham was too unreasoning in heropposition. She could only say:

"I don't like him, that's all. I knowed a man back in New York thatcurled his mustaches just that way, an' he wa'n't no earthiy good."

It might have been said by a cynic that Banker Sanford had all thevirtues of a defaulting bank cashier. He had no bad habits beyondsmoking. He was genial, companionable, and especially ready tohelp when sickness came. When old Freeme Cole got down withdelirium tremens that winter, Sanford was one of the most heroicof nurses, and the service was so clearly disinterested andmaguanimous that everyone spoke of it.

His wife and he were included in every dance or picnic; for Mrs.Sanford was as great a favorite as the banker himself, she was sosincere, and her gray eyes were so charmingly frank, and then shesaid "such funny things."

"I wish I had something to do besides housework. It's a kind of aputterin' job, best ye can do," she'd say merrily, just to see theothers stare. "There's too much moppin' an' dustin'. Seems 's if awoman used up half her life on things that don't amount toanything, don't it?"

"I tell yeh that feller's a scallywag. I know it buh the way 'e walks'long the sidewalk," Mrs. Bingham insisted to her son, who wishedher to put her savings into the bank.

The youngest of a large family, Link had been accustomed all hislife to Mrs. Biugham's many whimsicalities.

"I s'pose you can smell he's a thief, just as you can tell when it'sgoin' to rain, or the butter's comin', by the smell."

She yielded at last, and received a little bankbook in return for hermoney. "Jest about all I'll ever get," she said privately; andthereafter out of her' brass-bowed spectacles with an eagle's gazeshe watched the banker go by. But the banker, seeing the dear oldsoul at the window looking out at him, always smiled and bowed,unaware of her suspicion.

At the end of the year he bought the lot next to his rented houseand began building one of his own, a modest little affair, shapedlike a pork pie with a cupola, or a Tamo'-Shanter cap-a style ofarchitecture which became fashionable at once.

He worked heroically to get the location of the plow factory atBluff Siding, and all but succeeded; but Tyre, once their ally,turned against them, and refused to consider the fact of the Siding'sposition at the center of the county. However, for some reason orother, the town woke up to something of a boom during the nexttwo years. Several large farmers decided to retire and live off thesweat of some other fellow's brow, and so built some houses of thepork-pie order and moved into town.

This inflow of moneyed men from the country resulted in theestablishment of a "seminary of learning" on the hillside, wherethe Soldiers' Home was to be located. This called in more farmersfrom the country, and a new hotel was built, a sash-and-doorfactory followed, and Burt McPhail set up a feed mill.

An this improvement unquestionably dated, from the opening ofthe bank, and the most unreasonmg partisans of the banker heldhim to be the chief cause of the resulting development of the town,though he himself modestly disclaimed any hand in the affair.

Had Bluff Siding been a city, the highest civic honors would havebeen open to Banker Sanford; indeed, his name was repeatedlymentioned in connection with the county offices.

"No, gentlemen," he explained firmly, but courteously, in Wilson'sstore one night; "I'm a banker, not a politician. I can't ride twohorses."

In the second year of the bank's history he went up to the north partof the state on business, visiting West Superior, Duluth, Ashland,and other booming towns, and came back full of the wonders ofwhat he saw.

"There's big money up there, Nell," he said to his wife.

But she had the woman's tendency to hold fast to what she had,and would not listen to any plans about moving.

"Build up your business here, Jim, and don't worry about whatgood chances there are somewhere else."

He said no more about it, but he took great interest in all the newsthe "boys" brought back from their annual deer hunts "up North."They were all enthusiastic over West Superior and Duluth, andtheir wonderful development was the never-ending theme ofdiscussion in Wilson's store.

II

The first two years of the bank's history were solidly successful,and "Jim" and "Nellie" were the head and front of all good worksand the provoking cause of most of the fun. No one seemed morecarefree.

"We consider ourselves just as young as anybody," Mrs. Sanfordwould say, when joked about going out with the young people somuch; but sometirnes at home, after the children were asleep, shesighed a little.

"Jim, I wish you was in some kind of a business so I could help. Idon't have enough to do. I s'pose I could mop an' dust, an' dust an'mop; but it seems sinful to Waste time that way. Can't I doanything, Jim?"

"Why, no. If you 'tend to the children and keep house, that's allanybody asks of you."

She was silent, but not convinced. She had a desire to dosomething outside the walls of her house-a desire transmitted toher from her father, for a woman inherits these things.

In the spring of the second year a number of the depositors drewout money to invest in Duluth and Superior lots, and the wholetown was excited over the matter.

The summer passed, Link and Sanford spending their tirne in thebank-that is, when not out swimming or fishing with the boys. ButJuly and August were terribly hot and dry, and oats and corn wereonly half-crop; and the farmers were grumbling. Some of themwere forced to draw on the bank instead of depositing.

McPhail came in, one day in November, to draw a thousanddollars to pay for a house and lot he had recently bought.

Sanford was alone. He whistled. "Phew! You're comin' at me hard.Come in tomorrow. Link's gone down to the city to get somemoney."

"All right," said MePhail; "any time."

"Goin' t' snow?"

"Looks like it. I'll haf to load a lot o' ca'tridges ready fr biz."

About an hour later old lady Bingham burst upon the banker, wildand breathless. "I want my money," she announced.

"Good morning, Mrs. Bingham. Pleasant-"

"I want my money. Where's Lincoln?"

She had read that morning of two bank failure-one in Nova Scotiaand one in Massachusetts-and they seemed providential warningsto her. Lincoln's absence confirmed them.

"He's gone to St. Paul-won't be back till the five-o'clock train. Doyou need some money this morning? How much?"

"All of it, sir. Every cent."

Sanford saw something was out of gear. He tried to explain. "I'vesent your son to St. Paul after some money-"

"Where's my money? What have you done with that?" In herexcitement she thought of her money just as she hand handed itin-silver and little rolls and wads of bills.

"If you'll let me explain-"

"I don't want you to explain nawthin'. Jest hand me out mymoney."

Two or three loafers, seeing her gesticulate, stopped on the walkoutside and looked in at the door. Sanford was annoyed, but heremained calm and persuasive. He saw that something had causeda panic in the good, simple old woman. He wished for Lincoln asone wishes for a policeman sometimes.

"Now, Mrs. Bingham, if you'll only wait till Lincoln-"

"I don't want 'o wait. I want my money, right now."

"Will fifty dollars do?"

"No, sir; I want it all-every cent of it-jest as it was."

"But I can't do that. Your money is gone-"

"Gone? Where is it gone? What have you done with it? You thief-"

"'Sh!" He tried to quiet her. "I mean I can't give you your money-"

"Why can't you?" she stormed, trotting nervously on her feet as shestood there.

"Because-if you'd let me explain-we don't keep the money just as itcomes to us. We pay it out and take in other-"

Mrs. Bingham was getting more and more bewildered. She nowhad only one clear idea-she couldn't get her money. Her voice grewtearful like an angry child's.

The old lady clutched the money, and literally ran out of the door,and went off up the sidewalk, talking incoherently. To everyoneshe met she told her story; but the men smiled and passed on. Theyhad heard her predictions of calamity before.

But Mrs. Mcllvaine was made a triffe uneasy by it "He wouldn'tgive you y'r money? Or did he say he couldn't?" she inquired in hermoderate way.

"He couldn't, an' he wouldn't!" she said. "If you've got any moneythere, you'd better get it out quick. It ain't safe a minute. WhenLincoln comes home I'm goin' to see if I can't-"

"Well, I was calc'latin' to go to Lumberville this week, anyway, tobuy a carpet and a chamber set. I guess I might 's well get themoney today."

When she came in and demanded the money, Sanford was scared.Were these two old women the beginning of the deluge? WouldMcPhail insist on being paid also? There was just one hundreddollars left in the bank, together with a little silver. With rarestrategy he smiled.

"Certainly, Mrs. McIlvaine. How much will you need?" She hadintended to demand the whole of her deposit-one hundred andseventeen dollars-but his readiness mollified her a little. "I did 'lowI'd take the hull, but I guess seventy-five dollars 'll do."

He paid the money briskly out over the little glass shelf. "How isyour children, Mrs. McIlvaine?"

"I guess so," she replied dubiously. "I'll count it after I get home."

She went up the street with the feeling that the bank was all right,and she stepped in and told Mrs. Bingham that she had no troublein getting her money.

Alter she had gone Sanford sat down and wrote a telegram whichhe sent to St. Paul. This telegram, according to the duplicate at thestation, read in this puzzling way:

E. O., Exchange Block, No.96. All out of paper. Send five hundrednoteheads and envelopes to match. Business brisk. Press ofcorrespondence just now. Get them out quick. Wire.

SANFORD

Two or three others came in after a little money, but he put themoff easily. "Just been cashing some paper, and took all the readycash I can spare. Can't you wait till tomorrow? Link's gone down toSt. Paul to collect on some paper. Be back on the five o'clock.Nine o'clock, sure."

An old Norwegian woman came in to deposit ten dollars, and hecounted it in briskly, and put the amount down on her little bookfor her. Barney Mace came in to deposit a hundred dollars, theproceeds of a horse sale, and this helped him through the day.Those who wanted small sums he paid.

"Glad this ain't a big demand. Rather close on cash today," he said,smiling, as Lincoln's wife's sister came in.

She laughed, "I guess it won't bust yeh. If I thought it would, I'dleave it in."

"Busted!" he said, when Vance wanted him to cash a draft. "Can'tdo it. Sorry, Van. Do it in the morning all right. Can you wait?"

"Oh, I guess so. Haf to, won't I?"

"Curious," said Sanford, in a confidential way. "I don't know that Iever saw things get in just such shape. Paper enough-but exchange,ye know, and readjustment of accounts."

"I don't know much about banking, myself," said Vance, goodnaturedly; "but I s'pose it's a good 'eal same as with a man. Gitshort o' cash, first they know -ain't got a cent to spare."

"That's the idea exactly. Credit all right, plenty o' property, but-"and he smiled and went at his books. The smile died out of hiseyes as Vance went out, and he pulled a little morocco book fromhis pocket and began studying the beautiful columns of figureswith which it seemed to be filled. Those he compared with thebooks with great care, thrusting the book out of sight when anyoneentered.

He closed the bank as usual at five. Lincoln had not come couldn'tcome now till the nine-o'clock accommodation. For an hour afterthe shades were drawn he sat there in the semidarkness, silentlypondering on his situation. This attitude and deep quiet wereunusual to him. He heard the feet of friends and neighbors passingthe door as he sat there by the smoldering coal fire, in the growingdarkness. There was something impressive in his attitude.

He started up at last and tried to see what the hour was by turningthe face of his watch to the dull glow from the cannon stoye's opendoor.

"Suppertime," he said and threw the whole matter off, as if he haddecided it or had put off the decision till another time.

As he went by the post office Vance said to Mcllvaine in a smilingway, as if it were a good joke on Sanford:

"Little short o' cash down at the bank."

"He's a good fellow," Mcllvaine said.

"So's his wife," added Vance with a chuckle.

III

That night, after supper, Sanford sat in his snug little skting roomwith a baby on each knee, looking as cheerful and happy as anyman in the village. The children crowed and shouted as he "trottedthem to Boston," or rode them on the toe of his boot. They made anoisy, merry group.

Mrs. Sanford "did her own work," and her swift feet could beheard moving to and fro out in the kitchen. It was pleasant there;the woodwork, the furniture, the stove, the curtains-all had thatlook of newness just growing into coziness. The coal stove waslighted and the curtains were drawn.

After the work in the kitchen was done, Mrs. Sanford came in andsat awhile by the fire with the children, looking very wifely in herdark dress and white apron, her round, smiling face glowing withlove and pride-the gloating look of a mother seeing her children inthe arms of her husband.

"How is Mrs. Peterson's baby, Jim?" she said suddenly, her facesobering.